


Got My Guy

by whenthefucksareout



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Drug Use, Drugs, Forced Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love/Hate, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, People Change People, Slurs, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenthefucksareout/pseuds/whenthefucksareout
Summary: After the fall of El Trujllio's warehouse, he began to build it once again. You took the fall for your guilty runaway neighbours who caused it.
Relationships: Nevada Ramirez/Reader
Kudos: 2





	Got My Guy

The first time you met Nevada Ramírez, it was after your neighbours had fled to the Phillidelphia. The sound of people turning the apartment upside down woke you up, you knocked constantly on the door and then coming face to face with a puff of smoke, then as it cleared, a black haired, green eyed scowl looking back at you.

Intimidated was the first thing you felt, he asked you where they went, where the kid went—you didn't trust him by the amount of questions he was asking and the fact he had already backed you against the wall opposite the door, made you weary. You dodged all the questions, 

The second time you met Nevada Ramírez, you had just finished your shift at the resteraunt you work in as a waiter. You had been taking off the apron you wore to protect your clothes when a hand shoved your locker door closed, startled, you looked at who done so—the same man who was tearing your old neighbours house apart. He asked you the same questions, you gave no answers.

Their uncle had told you a bit about the men who were after them, even after the leader got the money he was owed, and that you couldn't say a word. You didn't.

But this time, Trujillo didn't let you leave without a theat. You ignored it then, but you met with the shop owner again and learned that Trujillio threw a kid over a bridge, then you bought new locks for your doors.

The third time you met Nevada Ramírez, you went out with work friends after a good successful work week to a popular club to drink and get and quote; "Absolutely wasted.". A few bourbons and scotches later, a very kind and generous man paid of your next—you were about to thank him, but when you faced him you suddenly became sober as a newborn child. It was the same man—no, it was El Trujillo and your work friends had backed away when they saw him coming, you were alone and inside his very own club.

It was then Nevada had introduced himself, uncharacteristically kindly and drank half of the drink he paid for you before sliding it over the small distance to you. He told you that he knew you were hiding secrets from him, but that isn't why he wants you anymore. That he didn't care for those; “pequeños cabrones y su bebé bastardo”.

He had placed his hand on your cheek, tenderly, and told you he wasn't going to murder you for a mistake they made. Instead, he gave you no option but to work for him. To pay off their debts. You went home that night curtesy of his SUV, they already knew where you lived but Nevada wanted to remind you. 

And so, this brings you to now. The job was rough, you brought new bulk shipments of the numerous drugs from different plugs into a brand new warehouse (with fire extinguishers and fire safety equipment on the site), and you often got empty threats off those sellers or off people you worked with.

Sometimes you would get caught up in fights, they would try and withhold the full amount and then you would argue with them and then they'd beat the shit out of you.

This was one of these times. They beat you to a pulp, breaking your arm in the process and spitting on your pulverised body on the ground and refused to give you what Nevada ordered. They threw you out on the pavement and you had work up the courage to phone El Trujllio yourself. To say he was angry on the other end was underplaying his reaction.

And then that brings you to now. Sitting on the perched edge of the open back door of the SUV, as one of Nevada's men checked your arm. Nevada was inside with another, you don't even want to know what he was doing in there. You wouldn't be surprised if the paramedics were on the scene in thirty-minutes.

Nevada came out of the building angry, stomping as he walked, a joint in his hand while one of his men held two crates of whatever he ordered. Nevadas knuckles were red, he was glaring at you.

"What the fuck were you thinking, ¿Eres un cabrón?"

Nevada growls, he shoves you to the side so his inventory can be put in the car.

"They rushed me, I couldn't do anything." You reply back. Arguing with Nevada was a no-go, you're more scared of him than the people who beat you up, he can kill you and make it look like an accident.

"Couldn't do anything? I gave you a gun—" he touches up and down on your body, checking you like a cop would if they pulled you over, expecting to feel the gun somewhere on your body, but he doesn't, "Where the fuck is your gun?"

"I don't like it, I don't like using it. I told you that when you forced me into this fucking job."

Nevada doesn't think, instead, he slaps you across the face. Grabbing your chin to make you look at him, he leans down to your sitting height. Your blood from your nose trickling on his fingers.

"Don't you ever fucking disrespect me, hermafrodita," he tightens his grip, feeling as if your teeth will pop out your guns with the force he has. "Did you forget about the lesson I taught you the last time, hmm?"

The last lesson Nevada had ' _taught_ ' you was the first time you had _disrespected_ him, a week ago. Nevada put his trusty gun to your forehead and made you beg for your life, to list off reasons why you should go back home tonight to your nice warm bed. It entertained him when you cried. 

Nevada would've killed you if you didn't.

You didn't know anything about him other then what other people tell you. Nevada had lost his nephew in the fire, his sister doesn't know what he does for a living and thinks he's a manager of some business (in a way, he is). But Nevada knows a lot about you; a bad home life, living in a crappy apartment with a broken sliding window and some piping problems (you're in the heights, what would you expect?), that you're studying to become a Detective—(which will come in handy in the future, a new dirty cop under his belt) but right now you're half a delivery boy and a waiter in a restaurant.

Nevada let's go of your chin, wiping your own blood down your bruised cheek off the back of his hand.

"It's done. You owe me."

"Owe you?"

"I had to come all the way out here to do your fuckin' job, you fuckin' owe me my time, my energy—you think I hired you to fuck around, chupapollas? Ay?"

He slaps you again, the back of his hand and his ring scrapes past your cheek, he then grabs your broken arm and you make a muffled sound of pain, biting your tongue and then keeping your lips shut. He frowns.

"The fuck happened?"

"Think its broken, Trujillo. Bone feels out of place." His bodyguard says for you, saving you the trouble. 

Nevada's tongue traces the inside of his bottom lip, continuing to hold your arm, but his grip lightens up. His scowl is still persistant on his face.

"Fine. Take him back to the club, I'll make some calls." he waves.  
  


Back in the club, his main central, a nurse had came by and cleaned your wounds, put your arm in a cast and stitched what needed to be stitched. Nevada had watched, leaning against the closed door while he smoked a chunky cigar. It was like he was expecting you to run or something.

Nevada scoffed when the nurse informed him that you did in fact have a broken arm, like he didn't believe it. They told him that whatever job he was telling you to do, to let you have time to heal—he almost blew off. They gave you gauze patches and spare bandages, before they left they told Nevada to go easy. He slammed the door behind them hard enough for the walls to shake.

"You take you fuckin' gun with you everywhere you go from now on. I ain't taking another risk. You were lucky they threw you out on the street like a finished whore instead of _popping_ your head in." 

You flinch at his words, automatically intimidated by his tone. Nevada punches the wall with the side of his fist. It's dents.

"Where is it? I know you didn't pawn that shit, Así que Dios te ayude, si lo hiciste!"

"I.. I didn't! It's under my bed, in.. in a box."

You flinch again, due to his tone alone. It brought back bad memories whenever he even remotely raised his voice at you, you were afraid of Nevada Ramírez. Who wasn't?

Nevada curls his hand around your non-broken arm and and pulls you to your feet, entering your personal space close enough that his torso is millimetres from yours.

"Come on." He says.

"Where?"

"Your fuckin' apartment. Let's go, I ain't takin' your fuckin' word for it."

You don't have the option to protest. Nevada does what he wants, when he wants. That ranges from straight up murdering, shop lifting in front of the store owners, beating people to a pulp for something small, having sex in public areas and doing whoever the fuck he feels like, when he wants it. Your apartment was practically his, you were his bitch—everyone who works for him is his bitch.

Soon enough, you find yourself back inside your home. Nevada shoves things off shelves as he moves, knocking over a glass bottle and it smashes on the ground, then finding your room and turning the sheets and the pillows to the ground, lifting hour cheap mattress to find said box. 

"This it?"

You don't answer quick enough, he runs out of patience.

"Keep up, Coño! Is this it?"

You nod, he pulls the it apart to find his gun. He inspects the pistol, the silencer placed right next to where it was laying and opening the clip, all ten bullets still inside, you haven't used it yet. You haven't had a reason too.

Nevada sticks the barrel of the gun inside your jeans, so that the end is sticking out.

"Next shipment, you take it by force. Look at you, you look like _shit_ —fucked _up."_ He smirks, hand gesturing your wounds. "I still mean it, you owe me. Once that arms healed, you're gettin' a promotion."

"To what?" you frown.

"You've been in my clubs, correct?"

".. Yes," you reply. Nevada's smirk gets somehow snider, he eyes you up and down and it makes you feel small, inconsiderate. Nevada steps back and sits on your bed, fingering the bedsheets.

"I got new investors, new people to impress. And you.. you look the part, hermoso. I'm _very_ sure you'll play the part when I pay you more."

"You don't pay me now." You reply, frown still on your eyebrows. Its true, Nevada doesn't pay you a dime—you get all of your income from your stupid waiter job that you cut hours on to do this stupid job.

"I don't?" He looks as if he was.. confused, like he _thought_ he was paying you. He shrugs, anyway. "Five grand every month, it goes up the more you work."

Five Grand? Five full grand? Five thousand Dollars every four weeks? Your eyes widen at the numbers, you earn that in two and a half months and Nevada is willing to give you it for a single month? It sounds too good to be true.

".. How will I be working?"

"You be in the room when we're talking deals. Serve 'em drinks, grind on them, feminize yourself to get their cocks hard."

No. Just No. Feminize yourself? You've worked hard to look the part of a cisgender man, so much so that no one has sussed you out. Yet. And femininzing yourself will only make you feel gross, horrible—you aren't a woman, no matter how hard people try and tell you.

"No. I'm not a slut, trujillo."

Nevada scoffs, eyebrows raising and his eyes widen in shock. No one says _No_ to El Trujllio. **_No one_**.

"You don't have a fuckin' choice!" He stands, "You work for me. I tell you what to do!" He's shouting now, and you flinch _hard_. He smirks at your fear, suddenly calming down. He pats your upper arm, leaning forward to reach your ear.

"Get well soon, cariño. Because once you're well, you'll be on random putos laps getting me donero. Me entiendes?"

You suck in a silent breath, shakily. Closing your eyes, you answer. "Yes."


End file.
